


what a monstrous sight he makes, mocking man's best friend

by Princex_N



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dehumanization, Gen, Introspection, Movie: John Wick: Chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29117403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: They'd called him dog as if it was an insult, until he'd proven time and time again that he was always the biggest threat in the room. Sometimes it felt like only Sofia recognized him as the uncanny valley animal he was from the start.
Kudos: 14





	what a monstrous sight he makes, mocking man's best friend

**Author's Note:**

> title from [thrice's song 'the lion and the wolf'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hw0TsKzap8w)

Sofia is driving away from the ruins of Berrada's forge, which she's just slaughtered her way out of. Her dogs are whole and hale, curled in the back of the car that she's stolen as she drives unerringly towards the empty expanse of the desert, and John Wick is asleep in her passenger seat. 

Somehow, she can't quite piece together which of those statements she finds the most absurd. 

Through the time she's known him, John's relationship with life has baffled and fascinated her in equal measures, and somehow the years he managed to get away haven't seemed to change him much at all. 

They hadn't worked together often, back when they worked the same kind of job, but she's seen enough of him to be familiar with the way he behaves. Gossip could fill the gaps, but Sofia's never trusted anyone's eyes but her own. He's always carried out his orders with a detached disinterest, nearly bored by the effort it takes to do the things he's best at. Half the time, no one ever even got a chance to fight back. 

But when they _did_ , things would change. He always fought to live so furiously, all smooth motion and wild instinct, unlike anyone else she's met. She's never seen him throw a fight, never seen him hesitate, never heard any hint of someone else finding a proper opening in the way he moves. He'll get hurt alright, she's seen him tear his body to shreds and just keep coming, but he hasn't been killed yet. 

Yet, somehow, he's been careless enough to sleep in front of her, in front of others, more than once. 

Sofia's not stupid enough to think it trust, but the alternative that he almost just doesn't care what happens to his body when he's not present in it doesn't seem quite right either. 

Doesn't change the fact that it's probably still the most accurate. 

John has always fought like a man with everything and nothing to lose. All instinct and hardly any calculation, rarely emotion, like he's doing nothing but going through the motions of keeping his body alive, mechanically ensuring that everyone else in the room dies before he does, if they're stupid enough to try their hands at putting him down. 

She sees the same in dogs she's rescued from fighting rings. An old and frozen anger. Too beaten down to care anymore, but still viscous enough to bite at the slightest provocation. The look in their eyes a mix of threats and pleas as they stare down their latest threat. 

(Sofia would have thought that wife of his would have tried her hand at rehabilitating him, but she supposes loss is as retraumatizing as anything else could be.)

They'd called him as much - dog, wolf, hound - before he had unfolded into the Baba Yaga, into _el cucuy,_ _el monstro_ , whichever. Every culture has a bogeyman, after all, and John had seemingly taken no effort at all to embody every single one. 

(They'd called him dog as if it was an insult, up until he'd proven time and time again that he was always the biggest threat in the room. Sometimes it felt like only Sofia recognized him as the uncanny valley animal he was from the start.) 

That detached ferocity had been one of the reasons why she had chosen him to confide in, to seek help from, when whispers of her coming promotion had begun to gain traction. He's the best at what he does, sure, but his complete lack of interest in the majority of things meant that the probability of him conspiring with the information she was giving him was next to null, even without the insurance of the marker. He never cared about politics, or getting ahead, or showing off. 

(That his dedication to keeping himself alive had always seemed easily extended to anyone ordered or tasked under his care just sweetened the pot. He'd neither smiled nor softened when Sofia had introduced her daughter to him, but he'd never made them uncomfortable either. Plenty of men good at their jobs and trusted with information could still leave civilians damaged or traumatized, through action or carelessness alike. That worry had never quite solidified around John. Sofia could never call his demeanor open or welcoming, but she'd never held any modicum of doubt that he'd done anything less than deliver her daughter to absolute safety either.)

All of that energy towards keeping himself alive, yet still careless enough to fall asleep in front of her, muscles slack and breathing steady. The long line of his throat exposed to her as his head cranes back against the window. 

Sofia has half a mind to tear it out right now, before any of this horseshit goes on any longer. Official or not, the marker has been fulfilled by his own word by now, and even without it she doesn't doubt that the chaos he's managed to wreak might be enough to net her enough slack to find it overlooked by the Table so desperate for his head. She could kill him right now, use his corpse as a bargaining chip to buy herself out of any trouble, and go back to her job and her life as if nothing had happened. Really, he practically owes her as much at this point. 

And yet, she doesn't. 

She thinks of the unhesitating fall of his body aligning alongside hers after she'd taken that first shot and brought chaos down on both their heads, the nearly wry note in his voice when he'd told her he understood her taking the same path she'd half-berated him for a mere hour earlier. She thinks of her daughter. Of the way his ragged sprawl and shallow breaths remind her of her dogs, both alive and safe and _hers_ in the backseat, thanks to him just as much as herself. 

There's nothing funny about it, but there's still a disbelieving smile fighting for purchase on Sofia's face as she turns her head away from him and back to face the empty road. She keeps her hands to herself. She keeps driving him to his fool's errand. 

She'll find some other way to pull their scores even before they part for the last time. She's sure of it. 


End file.
